Death, guns, and sticky buns by Valerie S. Malmont

Author:Valerie S. Malmont
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Mystery & Detective - General, Detective, Mystery & Detective - Women Sleuths, Tori (Fictitious character), Mystery & Detective, Mystery, Fiction - Mystery, Miracle, General, Pennsylvania, Mystery fiction, Women Sleuths, Mystery & Detective - Series, Suspense, Women newspaper editors, Fiction, Women novelists
ISBN: 9780440235989
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2000-03-07T08:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 13

Monday Morning

I ARRIVED AT THE OFFICE SHORTLY AFTER NINE. TO get there that early was a triumph, since I'd spent most of the previous night awake, missing Garnet and feeling sorry for myself. Only when the sky began to lighten had I fallen asleep.

“You look awful,” Cassie said.

“You're not exactly brightening my day with remarks like that.”

“Sorry, Tori, but your eyes are puffy, your cheeks are pillow-grooved, and your hair is standing straight up in back. Why don't you go home and go back to sleep. I can handle everything that's scheduled for today.”

“I'm fine.” I smoothed my hair down as best I could, knowing it would snap back as soon as I removed my hand, and took a look at the calendar lying open on my desk. “What's this, Cassie?” I asked. “There's something down for six-thirty tonight, and all it says is Foster's Elevator.”

“I told you about that. It's the shower for Janet Mar-golies's new baby.”

“It's being held in an elevator? Small, select group, I guess.”

Cassie laughed. “Don't be silly, Tori. Foster's Elevator is a grain elevator and feed store in Mountain View. Everybody knows that.”

“Even though I've had plenty of opportunities to discover that Lickin Creek is very different from Manhattan, I think holding a baby shower in a feed store is just a little peculiar. Don't you?”

She shook her head. “Not if the feed store happens to be owned by your father, and it's got a large meeting room upstairs.”

“I give up.” I picked up a story sent in by one of our freelancers and pretended to read it, but I was seriously thinking about going home for a nap.

Cassie answered the phone a couple of times and handled whatever crises loomed on the horizon. The fourth time, though, she covered the receiver and spoke to me. “I think you ought to take this one, Tori. It's Maggie at the library, and she sounds awfully upset.”

“Maggie, what's the matter?” I asked. She was crying so hard I couldn't understand what she was trying to say. “Has something happened to Bill?”

“No,” she wailed. “It's the”—sob… sniffle… sob—“the gutta-percha. It's gone. Stolen.”

Cassie, still listening on her extension, looked at me quizzically. “Gutted perch?” she mouthed.

“Tell you later. No, not you, Maggie. I was talking to Cassie. Do you want me to come over?”

“Please.” Sniff… sob… sniff.

As I hunted for the camera and some film, Cassie said, “Sounded like she was talking about a fish. What's the big deal about a gutted perch?”

“Gutta-percha, Cassie. It's a rubberlike material. Maggie has a display at the library of objects made of it. I think it was on loan from the town historian.”

“And it was stolen? Poor Maggie! I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of Gerald Manley's temper.”

“Ah, here it is.” The camera was on top of the file cabinet behind a potted snake plant, the only plant that hadn't died since I'd taken over the office.

I ran down Main Street toward the library. From a block away, I could see the Lickin Creek police cruiser parked in the tow-away zone out front.

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